


Wounded Champion (the Searching for Home Remix)

by texanfan



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texanfan/pseuds/texanfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike survived the Apocalypse.  Now what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded Champion (the Searching for Home Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spiralleds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiralleds/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Doctor Who Knew](https://archiveofourown.org/works/78203) by [Spiralleds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiralleds/pseuds/Spiralleds). 



Spike didn’t die in LA. Which really devastated him, being the last one standing carried more of guilt and pain than jubilation in Spike’s experience. Besides, Spike wasn’t meant to be a solitary creature and, as much as he and Angel disliked each other, they were family. Now, with Angel and his crew gone, Buffy off cavorting with the Immortal and Drusilla a very closed door, Spike had no one. So, having precious few options, he eventually washed up at the front door of the Watcher’s Council. 

A compound brimming with slayers wasn’t the healthiest place for a vampire to turn up but he thought someone might vouch for him, if not there was always that dying thing.

Turned out Xander popped up 

“Stand down girls, he’s one of the good guys.” Xander’s voice rang with authority and the baby slayers sheathed their stakes without protest. Then Xander motioned Spike inside to an office where a short debrief on the downfall of Wolfram and Hart ended in him inviting Spike to his place to watch the Manchester United game.

Spike still didn’t know how to take that. Sure, Xander had been coerced into taking him in at two of the lowest points of his existence, but the operative word there was coerced. For him to invite Spike over all on his own boggled the mind. 

Still, Spike accepted the invitation, snagged a six pack of bitter and stood on Xander’s front stoop.

Light spilled out as Xander swung the door open wide. “Spike, come on in. Put the beer in the fridge.”

Xander’s invitation to come over gained him entrance past the barrier, but the additional invite felt nice. Still, some things he just couldn’t let pass. “You don’t put good English beer in a fridge, you philistine.”

“Whatever, you can keep the weird stuff. Who drinks something called bitter anyway? I’m sticking with my Bud,” Xander said with a shrug. 

Spike shuddered at the thought of the American swill and set his offering on the kitchen counter. “At least mine has actual flavor, berk,” he insisted.

“Oh it has flavor all right.” Xander made a face as if he’d been offered a spoiled cheese rather than Fuller’s ESB. He grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge and flopped onto the couch. “Once was enough to convince me that,” he poked an accusing finger at Spike’s beer, “is not something I care to acquire a taste for.”

Spike gave an elaborate shrug. “More for me then.” 

The living room had a nice big screen telly and a single couch facing it. Xander had plopped himself on one end, obviously leaving the other half for Spike, but he still found himself uncertain where to sit.

“Do you need an invitation to sit on the couch,” Xander quipped, his eye on the telly as he flipped channels. “’cause that would be a new one.”

Caught dithering, Spike grabbed a Foster’s and settled on the other side of the couch. He hated how tentative he felt. Xander kept his attention focused on finding the game, leaving Spike’s mind free to wander back to LA.

Charlie went down first, buried under the blows of a dozen different demons. The press of battle kept Spike from getting to him.

“There it is,” Xander said at last, setting the remote down and glancing Spike’s way.

Spike just nodded briefly and stared a bit blankly at the screen, his mind an ocean and a couple months away. Angel did indeed take on the dragon, and won. Immediately engaging another opponent, he didn’t see the mortally wounded dragon lift its head. Spike shouted a warning but Angel didn’t have time to properly respond before the dying beast let loose a final fiery blast incinerating Angel and his opponent. 

“I can’t watch this without more beer, you want one?” Xander headed for the kitchen as he spoke.

The civility of the question broke Spike out of his reminiscences for a moment. “Sure, thanks mate.”

Xander tossed him a bottle, which Spike caught deftly, then turned to rummage in the fridge for the swill he was drinking. Spike stared at the bottle, remembering his intention to go out in a blaze of glory, fists and fangs and blood just like it should be. Then Blue shoved him. Hard. So hard that when he came to he found himself three blocks from the Hyperion. When he made it back to the alley there was nothing but a giant crater in the ground. No team, no bad guys, just an overwhelming feeling of rejection.

Now he sat on Harris’ sofa flummoxed as to why he was here. There hadn’t been a single death threat so far and that was pretty unusual given how Xander felt about him a year ago. As a matter of fact, Harris very carefully gave him space and his comments lacked the scathing edge he expected from Harris. 

Xander rummaged in his kitchen cupboards muttering something about chips. Then he shouted over his shoulder, “Spike! When’s the new season of Doctor Who starting?”

Blindsided by the non-sequitur he responded on reflex. “Oi, Harris, how should I know?”

Undaunted, Xander had a ready answer even with his head buried in the pantry. “Because you say things like ‘oi.’”

Spike had the sneaking suspicion Harris was attempting to make him the butt of a joke. “Of all the ugly stereotyping—“

Xander emerged from the kitchen, two bags of crisps in hand and a ridiculous grin on his face. “And your point is…? Do you know or don’t you?”  
Spike decided to play along, even if he didn’t understand the game. "Never could make heads or tails of that BBC schedule. Word to the wise, though. They always have that Christmas eppie. Pay attention when December rolls round." Besides, the Christmas specials tended to be brilliant.  
“Christmas is in December. Who knew?” Xander returned to his inelegant sprawl on the couch, tossing Spike a bag of the vinegar and salt crisps he liked.  
Spike felt a small smile tugging at his lips as he started to realize something. Xander was bantering, not taunting, and he only did that with people he cared something about. "You solicited my advice and this is the gratitude you show. Fine. See if I share any of the juicy tidbits I heard 'bout that Piper bird."  
“Spill it, Spike!” Xander’s response was pure mischief. “Or I’ll tell the girls how a sexbot threw you out a window.”  
“Oh like I don’t have dozens of embarrassing stories about you,” Spike retaliated.  
“Well sure,” Xander settled back on the arm of the couch, digging into his bag of crisps. “But I’ve survived Willow’s assaults and she’s got dirt on me from back in kindergarten. Bring it on.”

“Later, game’s back on,” Spike said amiably and dug into his own bag. 

“Sure, sure,” Xander said through a mouthful of barbeque crisps. “If watching your favorite soccer team is what I have to do to get you to stick around here, so be it. I’m drowning in estrogen here.” For perhaps the first time all evening he looked at Spike straight on. “I’d like to have you here.” 

Spike allowed himself a real smile, touched that Xander had remembered that Man U was his favorite team. All at once he knew a place still existed for him. Not just someplace to exist but a place to belong. Seemed he still had family after all.


End file.
